


Glass

by Iresolatio



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Blow Jobs, Dom Thomas Hamilton, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, brief reference to brutal sex with strangers (historical), non explicit reference to fisting (historical), poor body image, shame about sexuality and sexual practices, some mentions of the realities of anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iresolatio/pseuds/Iresolatio
Summary: Inside was a wad of soft green material and nestled within was a glass object, milky and smooth. James tried to puzzle it out, tear drop shaped then curving in, with a flanged base. He could feel himself tense, something about the unnaturalness of it. Thomas entered him, gave him pleasure, as many others had, but this was different.  It was a deliberate artificial opening of his body.  He felt grateful that he had washed, carefully, inside and out ready for Thomas’s return.There’s sort of a plot here if you squint, best described as an exploration of the pleasure/shame dynamic. There’s also class issues, the difficulty in sourcing good quality pine tar, and the challenges of gardening in tropical Nassau. Also aforementioned butt plug.
Relationships: Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This will likely appeal to two (2) people, myself and [riotsofbloom](https://riotsofbloom.tumblr.com/) who said it sounded like a great idea. But that's the point of fic right? Indulgence. If you're not them or me let me know if you enjoy. You can find me at [iressails](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iressails) too.
> 
> Thank you to [i-am-the-punk-who](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/im-the-punk-who) who made me question my views about James's sexuality, and his shame about bottoming and basically caused this. The 10k butt plugs is all me though.
> 
> Tell me if additional tags are needed, and I will add. This fic is unbetaed.

  1. Miranda (London)



James strode into the Hamilton house, eager as usual to see Miranda. He had been called away for two days to negotiate an agreement with their primary Swedish supplier to source the vast amount of pine tar needed, trying to balance economy with expedience. There was some work underway in Parliament – what they would likely call  _ The Bounty Act _ if passed – to encourage the new American colonies to produce pine tar and pitch to reduce England’s reliance on Scandinavia. Perhaps he would ask Thomas for an update when he returned from his so important house party. 

Peter Ashe had thought it wise for Thomas to go to the party, as it was going to be attended by those with particular influence, if not actual votes in the Lords. Thomas needed assistance from all quarters with rehabilitating Nassau, making their plan come to fruition once the Bill passed. So, he had acquiesced and accepted Peter’s counsel.

As James handed his hat and gloves over to the footman, he was in turn told wait in Thomas’s parlour and that Miranda would join him shortly. He sat beside the fire, the slight damp of his uniform almost steaming in the dry warm air.

James and Miranda had made do without their third while Thomas had been away, Miranda begging off attending because of “ague”, which being infectious had relieved her from engagements in London as well. She had told him that there would be smart, capable women at the house party but forced by expectations to focus on vapid issues and topics, and that it was exceedingly complicated to extricate herself from them  _ all  _ at  _ all _ hours of the day. The excellent hunting had not been enough of an inducement for her. She much preferred, she said, that James fuck her twice every day for each day Thomas was not with them. James had, quite thoroughly, with not few times picturing Thomas enjoying himself atop a horse in his hunting pinks, pale cheeks painted with high colour from wind and exertion. Then he had thought of Thomas in tight jodhpurs, which trapped his long member against his thigh, all too apparent to all those who cared to look. That had been enough to get him to bring himself off once or thrice.

This last couple of weeks without Thomas had felt different to when Miranda and he had first begun their affair, there was a subtle wrongness, a dissonant strain in rope and timber that signalled some ill to ship. It was only apparent when there were only two. A sailor’s intuition applied to their relationship…perhaps did not work. But how else was he to know how it ought to feel like, as someone who hadn’t been blessed with one committed lover, much less two, since those few weeks a decade ago in Plymouth? He thought he had that time; they had matched until his lover had realised James loved a woman’s taste just as much as a man’s. He had not liked James’s hand on his cunt, had not wanted him to touch his bound breasts. So, they had parted ways and sometimes when he saw a slim stiff figure walking a particular way in a redcoat he blinked, thinking it would be him. But those weeks were brief, and he understood now were filled with callow passion, and nothing compared to being enveloped in Thomas and Miranda’s love. When they were all together the wind was in the sails, the men were working perfectly in concert, making good time. He did not try to think about where they were headed.

But sometimes, late at night, he thought of a child with Miranda’s piercing eyes, Thomas’s blond hair and their keen intelligence. Would he be their father? No uncle. Unless the child was his, that scenario did not favour what he was and what he knew lived inside him, what Admiral Hennessey has sought to point to him that night in the tavern. He knew Miranda took precautions to make sure nothing kindled, and he found comfort in that. He would love their child as his own.

He would be able to be by their side when he returned to London from his naval duties overseas for however long the three of them lasted. An oasis at their townhouse always before he was sent to another situation that required England’s Navy. It would be even more respectable if he stood by their side if he had an Admiral’s position, gold epaulettes on his shoulders and the consequent lack of questioning and judgement. It would be his. The Hamiltons love would be a safe harbour and a lifelong joy. He would be fulfilled in every aspect of his life love and career both. He imagined these and yet he had not told them how he felt.

The footman entered the study and handed him a note. He opened it. Miranda.

_ You owe me four and I’ll swap for one. _

He started at the note for a minute, slow from days of exhausting meetings and finessing egos and outcomes. He had missed a couple of days of fucking Miranda due to the tar issue. Four times. She was collecting for one. That seemed too easy, and knowing her it would not be.

He swallowed quickly, but his face remained impassive. He nodded to the servant, before heading toward Miranda’s bedroom. It still shocked him that he could do this, walk freely in this opulent house toward whatever destination he wanted. To Lord and Lady Hamilton’s bedrooms.

Playtime they sometimes called it. Childish words, which had bothered him at first, but it was a reasonable way to express those times with them, which were unlike any others. Strong times where he was tested, warm times when he knew he was loved, times where he willingly ceded control to them, one or both. It was only then there with them he found relief for those desires, when had only been met partially, fleetingly, and only violently before.

He stepped into the room, eyes immediately finding Miranda on the bed, fully dressed in crimson and purples, hair tied intricately, purple stone inset in her necklace highlighting her magnificent bosom, hands on her lap where she was holding a wooden box loosely. She smiled at him, and it was the game smile, with a lick of cruelty at the edges. James drew in a breath and went over to the decorative table that had been set aside for his clothes. A twin of that table was in Thomas’s room. Playtime started with James undressed. He did not need to be told.

Uncharacteristically he fumbled with sword and belt, dropping both onto the table with a clatter and clang instead of placing them carefully. The rest of his uniform followed in similar fashion. His fingers were not cooperating, rubbery on buttons. Miranda did not say anything, eyes patient when James glanced over at her.

Finally, he was done bare to her gaze. He knew his skin marred by sun freckles, shoulders slimmer out of his uniform, belly softer, and he was perhaps too stocky with thick thighs. He wondered sometimes what they wanted with him, what was it about this body he had to offer. It was nothing special, he thought, it was perhaps even displeasing. His features were dominated by his womanly mouth bracketed by those twin trenches, mismatched eyes if one looked closely, and crowned with his ugly unfashionable hair. Hair that matched his body, framing his cock, scattered across his chest. It was what she was seeing now.

He knew Miranda could tell what he was feeling, same as Thomas when he was here, but she did not reassure him, instead patting beside her on the bed. James went over and sat down. She laid a firm hand on is cheek, turning his face to meet her.

“Thomas left a present for you before he left, so you were ready for him when he returns tonight. I was going to give it to you a couple days ago, but that didn’t happen.” Implied was the fact he was going to get punished.

Her hand left his cheek and she opened the box. Inside was a wad of soft green material and nestled within was a glass object, milky and smooth. James tried to puzzle it out, tear drop shaped then curving in, with a flanged base. It did not take long. He could feel himself tense, something about the unnaturalness of it. Thomas entered him, gave him pleasure, as many others had, but this was different. It was alien. It was deliberate artificial opening of his body. He felt grateful that he had washed, carefully, inside and out ready for Thomas’s return but for Miranda? For this? He quailed a little. “Get on the bed, James. Lie down, grasp your knees and pull them up as far as you can go.”

It would be effectively a position that bent him in half giving her full access and at the same time provided a connection between them, where she would be able to see his every expression. Whatever the Hamiltons dreamt up for him there were junctures, waypoints he would have chances to refuse. He had not yet during all these months. He lay flat while she washed her hands, and he saw her washing the item too, soap and water. It was taking too long, increasing his dread of the deed even more. He knew it was deliberate, she could well have done all that cleaning before he arrived, before asking him to expose himself legs in the air.

Finally, she came over placed a clean washcloth beside him and placed the glass object carefully on it. James could not look way. It was her opening the little pat of grease in paper that jolted him back. He was starting to get aroused, but not quite there yet so let go of his legs to grasp his cock and balls out of the way, giving her access. He did not care if it looked eager. They wanted it and it was happening and so he would bear it. Enjoy it. He could not chance deny them anything, not if there was the slightest chance their love would be withdrawn.

She paused.

James understood why. In between like this it would be harder for her to penetrate him, there was something about pleasuring himself at the same time made entry difficult. She knelt and loosened his hands from his cock and took him into her mouth with little fuss. James hated to compare, but as good at Miranda was at this act, her husband was better. She was too gentle, adding a lot of motion and different moves, when all that was needed – and what Thomas and he knew – was suction, consistency and a liquid throat. But she was nonetheless very good and accomplished the deed, leaving James straining against his belly within minutes, wetness apparent in a damp shiny streak on his belly.

She smiled down at him, mouth a little red, a swipe of liquid down one cheek. She looked a little ruffled now. Her brown eyes were warm. She swept her skirts out of the way, and again sat down between his legs. She scooped the grease from the waxed paper with two fingers and smoothed it around his hole, pushing some in, but not bothering to stretch him. Thomas must have instructed her; James was practiced and did not need it. She carefully coated the glass…? Plug? What was it called? Then he did not care what it was called when she pressed it against his hole and pushed in. James breathed in, consciously relaxed, and it was with only a little resistance it popped in and lodged firmly the base nestled outside. It did not feel like a cock inside him when he tightened experimentally: the blub was thicker for one and the weight was foreign, cold, and hard but reached deep enough to that place of pleasure inside him, but dull but simmering but dissimilar to cock.

Miranda’s unclasped his own hands, which had been biting into the back of his thighs, which brought him back to himself a little. He laid his legs back down on the bed with relief. The plug moved inside him, a thick curl of pleasure cresting. A shaky breath left him.

“Do you like that, James?” Miranda smiled down at him, delighted.

He was not sure. He felt full and ripe. If someone had asked him yesterday whether he would like a giant glass plug up his arse he would have been askance. Despite all her clothes, she lay down facing him, looking straight into his eyes. Her left hand pushed aside the loose short strands of his hair which had escaped his queue off his face. The other traced down his spine, over every bump, to end where his hot flesh met slick hardness. She traced around the round base. James could tell she restrained herself from dipping in under the seal. She pressed it in a little deeper and James felt his insides respond, trying to accommodate it.

His arousal was distant, focused on two points in a way he had not felt before; not even when he was being fucked, because then he had always been lost in the moment with a man fucking him. Now it was different, hardness teased by Miranda that needed satiation, and a weighted niggle inside him that was not close enough. It was maddening.

“You have two choices,” Miranda began. “You can fuck me now or you can wait for Thomas in a few hours. Thomas will, of course, fuck you.”

James tried to get his muzzy brain to work. They seemed like two good choices. Fucking Miranda was marvellous, and it would sate him, and then Thomas would have him afterwards. But there was a reason why Miranda had been instructed to plug him well before Thomas’s arrival at sundown. He understood no matter what he would have to endure the next few hours with it inside him. Would it be better if he came or if he did not?

He did not care of the consequences. He cared for Miranda and that meant that any opportunity to have her was priceless.

“You,” he said. “I want you.”

She slid off the bed, removed her under things before clambering on again still in her finery. She positioned him so that his back was resting on the headboard with most of his full weight on his arse. The whole endeavour made the plug move inside him in peculiar ways. Miranda sat herself down on his cock, bosom in his face, and gripped the headboard behind him, knees around his hips.

Her weight was delicious agony, getting quite so very close to the pressure he needed internally. She started moving, using the headboard for traction. She kept going, long even strokes, which worked best for him. The warm wetness of her was so good he grabbed her shoulders to make her stop before he came too quickly. It was what had happened in the carriage the first time, her clasp just what he had needed, and he was done before her, all too soon.

“Slowly, I am… affected,” he said, trying to keep his voice even as if that would stem the tide of sensation.

She started again but slowly and this time James was able to thrust his hips up in tandem, matching her. He tried to not let the weight of the thing inside him influence him, but of course it did. It was terrible but for the first time he could not concentrate on her simply because of the competing sensations. It was just too good. Miranda thankfully was very responsive and did not seem to mind James with half his mind on the job, milking his cock thoroughly on every thrust.

She bent down to kiss him, letting go of the headboard, her movements even gentler, really twisting her hips, almost moving on him in a circular motion. He had never come across that in the women he had bedded before her. It was good, but it was too soft to get him anywhere. It was against the rules, but he grabbed her torso and flipped them over, managing to keep them linked. She was underneath him. He started fucking her and her eyes laughed at him. 

From this position it was easier to control his reaction as well as hers, it was best as it kept the glass from moving erratically and gave him the space to move inside Miranda. Soon enough he felt the grip of her tighten fitfully around him, she was coming and knew it would not be much longer for him. Whereas normally she would let him continue for the few moments it would take for him to do the same, she pushed him off herself, leaving him exposed to the air, red and slick and throbbing, wetness thick at the tip.

“Too late. Thomas’s rules,” she said.

Diabolical. James had no doubt that Thomas had. She had relied on James’s cooperation too to accomplish this torture, knowing full well that he would pleasure her before himself. Being a gentleman.

She stepped her feet into her under things, and in a couple of minutes looked as unruffled as she had when he had first joined her. She finished by slipping her feet into her shoes, bending down to lace them up. He realised that the whole event had been precisely planned, she’s been sitting on the bed in stockinged feet ready to couple with him, her clothes serving to make him feel even more bare, the reminder of their first time in the carriage, the position that would allow him least amount of control, which he would try to take back a little – and that let her orgasm first. He closed his eyes and allowed his mouth to tip up to one side wryly. Well played, Hamiltons.

He willed his erection down, heart beating too fast. So damn close. She let him catch his breath before suggesting that perhaps he would like to get dressed for a hand or two of cards before dinner. She said she also needed to talk to the cook about that night’s menu considering Thomas would be wanting his favourites after two weeks of likely ordinary culinary efforts at his house party. She left him to tidy himself up and get dressed and trusted him to play fair and not bring himself off. She did not say that of course. But one again it was the rules.

He washed his penis with the same cloth she had used on the bed. He looked up above the basin and met his own eyes: they were soft and exposed as they always were when he was with them. His white chest had turned red he saw; his erection large and hard brought on by stimulation of the most gross sort. He turned around to see himself from behind. In the mirror he saw that his back was twisted and there between his cheeks it was, milky pale and a part of himself. The plug was holding him open, dilated, into that breach Thomas would push himself.

It made him soften, shame was a powerful deterrent. He wanted this; he had always wanted this. He did not know if it was because he desired men’s bodies, minds, or that he found sexual satisfaction with them, or whether if the sodomitical act he most desired required him to open his legs and be penetrated. Or this game, of playtime. A preference he had found it in humiliation, in being forced, in being restrained, in being hurt. It was wonderful in the moment with his lovers but afterwards and in between those oases he thought about the men he commanded doing what they did in the shadows, and about his superiors seeing Lieutenant McGraw on his hands knees asking for it all.

He had no trouble getting dressed.

  1. Thomas and Miranda (London)



Miranda offered him several choices of game for two players at the card table. James was indifferent until she mentioned the new game whist. He must have twitched or betrayed his feelings somehow because she chose it just to spite him. She raised an eyebrow, seeking an explanation for his reluctance.

“The game is Scandinavian. I have spent two days trying to wrest pine tar from them.” James offered grudgingly. “They have a lot of trees and a very scientific mode of production which yields the best quality tar. Kilns set to the side of a hill, shaped in a funnel, everything covered in peat, with controlled heat applied so that the liquid—.”

“Pine tar for the preservation of wood and rigging. I imagine there is a great need for the material for the fleet.” Miranda interrupted him. James was not surprised, Miranda’s knowledge roamed as far and as wide as her husband’s.

“Yes, much needed. There is work being done on strategically diversifying our sources of tar.” He stopped there, aware of what was conversationally appropriate. There were beats of conversation, played like music in Society circles. He felt grateful she had cut in kindly before, his skills were sub-par, he was either wordless, moving to taciturn on occasion, or garrulously truthful on topics that fascinated him but held little interest to others. His fellow officers had been trained in conversation since birth, his training had been painful, with lessons learnt through humiliating error. His lapses with the Hamiltons went for the most part unremarked, but sometimes one or other would subtly impart a benign suggestion for improvement.

Miranda dealt the cards, and they played a round, but James was not able to concentrate, missing tricks and making a bad show of himself. Normally he was very good at cards, his mind lending itself easily to strategy, he knew about resources and how to marshal them to best effect, and how to read other players. He had been trained for it, as well as naturally gifted. Miranda was closely a match, blessed with a good memory, and like James possessed an affinity for reading people. Thomas was indifferent, so out of the three James was their superior when it came to this skill, an echo of the naval skill needed to win skirmishes, battles, and wars. Thomas had pointed it out, rather gracelessly he had thought at the time at their first meeting. That was why he was sitting here now in his Lieutenant’s uniform with her, with them.

James shifted on the chair, a little to one side and he felt the glass plug move pleasurably deep inside him. He shifted again, same feeling, same sensation, and then twice more swaying side to side in the chair without meaning to. It was so good and so large inside him, rigid and nothing like a man’s cock. He liked the difference. Then he felt it, a warm trickle of liquid coming out of him, brought on by his movement. He could feel the wetness pool, damp.

He started shaking. Firstly, the uniform. Several months wages, ruined with a stain on coat and breeches. Then the chair. He stood up, and the chair skidded back, almost tipping over but not.

“What’s wrong James?” asked Miranda.

“I—there is— oil is coming out of me because I moved. I’m afraid it’s strained my clothing,” he looked around at the chair, “I thought the chair too, but thankfully not.” He ran his hands down the front of his coat. “I cannot afford to replace it.” It is not like they did not know of his circumstances visiting him in his poky lodgings, with bubbling and peeling paint and which was damnably cold once the sun moved on from that one gold hour in the morning.

“We’ll get you out of your uniform,” she said calmly. “If needed. I suspect I know what is happening, it is a woman’s lot to feel mysterious dampness in nether regions. Will you let me check?”

“Here?” His voice almost sounded calm.

“Yes,” she said, and she came around the card table to his side. He let her take the coat, blue and threaded silver, and she slipped her hand in the gap between his back and breeches. She slid it down to his drawers and it was a tight fit so almost mechanically he loosened the front. Once she had enough reach she was in tracing the seal of the plug, thoroughly. She pushed it in and pulled it out stretching his hole unbearably. It felt so good he almost forgot his wits. She checked again at the edges and tested the fabric around his crotch for dampness. She pulled her hand out decisively. “It’s not grease or anything else,” she showed him her clean hand, “It’s your sweat. You are aroused and it feels damp to you. It can be laundered away.” James breathed a sigh, relieved. “If you like you can change upstairs, we’ll find something of Thomas’s you can wear for the night.”

This was more than letting his wrists be bound. He knew absolutely she was telling him the truth. He shook his head.

“I’m ready to play.” They resumed their game, and James tried not to give in to the sensations inside, it was unbearably good. His erection was back, and he wished the fashion were for button up coats for naval uniforms. The best he could do was adjust his member so that it pointed straight up and was restrained by his breeches. He felt unbelievably exposed. He didn’t know how much of his desire was because of the physical sensations and how much of it was because he was held open for Thomas, that his insides were forced into laxity, that it was all in aid for Thomas breaching him. Taking him, his body huge and warm behind him.

“Thomas!” Miranda looked behind James. James whipped around fast to see Thomas approaching them, smiling in his way that was for the two of them. Small and intimate was the only way James could describe it.

Thomas went first to Miranda, embracing her from behind, placing a kiss on her dark hair. He saw Thomas inhale her scent and close his eyes. James saw two of them and felt his heart expand. Was this feeling because he loved both? If he only loved one he would feel less overwhelmed? Was the reservoir for these feelings finite and he was overflowing?

After his greeting to Miranda Thomas came toward him, bent down on one knee so his eyes were level with James’s. He laid a cautious hand on James’s lap before bending to nuzzle at his ear, before scattering a series of kisses on his neck. Too soft to do anything when he was in this state, but delightful, playful and a little possessive. James for once was not suffering paroxysms of panic at the public display, too damn busy with the feeling of glass lodged up his arse.

“Yes?” Thomas asked the two of them.

“Yes,” James and Miranda answered together.

James waited the half hour it took for Miranda and Thomas to undress, their clothes needing valets and ladies’ maids. Miranda’s hair was taken down and braided every night, brushed a hundred times, and oiled so that it was smooth and shiny. These were the things he had learned while liaising, of the disallowed familiarity of which Admiral Hennessey had spoken. Dangerous things.

James’s thoughts were interrupted by a servant who merely mentioned that it was time. He knew it would be Thomas’s bedroom for this. He entered and it took a couple of beats for his heart to settle as he took them in. Miranda slim but shapely, with a thick braid of dark hair resting against one full breast. Thomas lean with glistening blond body hair barely visible at chest, but fuller and darker at his crotch, highlighting his huge cock. At rest it hung a fair way down his long thigh, now it was rising, desire causing it to thicken fast.

They came to him and it was a dance where they undressed him together. Gentle touches, caressing when skin came exposed. It was deliberate he thought this unveiling, their baring of his body, it was them physically loving him. Showing him their care and desire for his ordinary body of white, red, soft. 

Thomas at this side tugged so hard at one nipple it pulled James forward, Miranda catching him, her breasts soft against his chest. Feeling the need James kissed her. She was warm and liquid and comforting.

He could sense Thomas move until he behind him, then his hands tugging his hair. Thomas pulled it out of the loose queue, finger combed the waves out, so it hung down his back. He could imagine what he was seeing, near to what James had himself seen in the mirror earlier. Thick red hair down his broad white back, shoulders scattered with freckles, his wide arse with a milky circle in the middle. He closed his eyes, teeth gritted as he felt Thomas’s gaze.

“How long has it been?” His voice was merely curious, tapping at the base thoughtfully. James jerked forward involuntarily into Miranda, who staggered back.

“Four hours,” replied Miranda from her position against James’s neck, her lips brushing the skin.

“Are you uncomfortable James? Is it sore?” With that he pushed it in as Miranda had before. James let loose a sharp exhale as it pressed pleasurably into him, but this time stopped himself from jerking into Miranda.

“It’s not sore,” he said finally. It was uncomfortable but he was practiced enough with men fucking him that it was not painful. It felt good, and they all knew it. They all knew he liked his arse being filled.

Thomas pulled him towards the bed and Miranda came along clumsily. Somehow still together they were on it, gathered awkwardly. They waited for Thomas, else there were too many arms, and a knee in a soft place, or someone left out for too long. Thomas eyed them all assessing, his large hand stroking down his own thighs. A thinking move James had seen dressed. They relied on Thomas to choreograph all the action, since he was their… James did not have a word for it. But Miranda knew it even as she mastered him. Maybe that was the word, but it sat uneasily with James. It was only here during sex; else they were his equals.

“Miranda tells me she had her way with you before, that you satisfied her quite nicely,” stated Thomas. James started; brought himself back, felt the hardness of the glass inside him.

“Yes,” said James. He wanted to squirm thinking of it, of her warm wetness. His hand almost went to his cock, but he stopped.

“And she denied you satisfaction?” Thomas finished James’s aborted move to his cock, grasping him loosely, before starting to tug at it slow even pace.

“Yes,” James said again, breath choppy. If was so good just like this, it would be better with more. With Thomas.

“How did you feel?”

“Good. Pained. I knew that it meant that I would have to wait for you.” James closed his eyes, sometimes it was there plain between the three of them, that there were different types and different degrees of love and desire.

“You’ll have to wait for me a little longer. Miranda—” Thomas began.

“I wish only for my hand tonight. James was very generous this afternoon.” There was a small frown between her brows, as she unpicked the embroidery, the threads and knots that bound them. “I would appreciate the chance to see James being taken. It would help satisfy me again and give him an appreciative audience.”

“What do you say James?” James replied by drawing Miranda close and kissing her. She was always welcome, and if tonight Thomas had wished James’s cock in her or his mouth drawing out orgasm? He would have delighted in it. “That will suffice,” said Thomas before pushing James onto his front face down, head toward the foot of the bed, taking him by surprise. Thomas arranged him so that James was on his shins, head pressed to the mattress, arse on his folded feet. Vulnerable knowing that they could see his plugged hole and just his gleaming broad bare back.

“He looks delightful,” said Miranda.

“A pretty picture,” said Thomas. “If I were of a mind to do it, I would commission this, a series of sketches in the Hellenistic style. I would have you in all the ways you love me in front of me whilst you are away at sea. Long months where time is not my friend.” This was said with perfect equanimity.

James could feel his buttocks clench at the horror of it. It was disgusting and yet again he felt his member rise higher. The plug filled his insides to the brim. Most of the arousal was that thought exposure but some of it was Thomas seeing this as love. Not just James loving Thomas but what they did together. James would have felt easier if what they shared was only of the mind and soul and not  _ this. _ He felt the glass shift inside him as his arse tightened, and both Miranda and Thomas laughed delightedly, seeing his reaction. That was the game too. This was all a game. There would be no sketches, this was Thomas telling him stories to get him aroused. It was not pain and brutality that Thomas gave him, but it worked the same way.

“Shall we see how his body has accepted it?” Thomas asked. James did not hear a response from Miranda but knew she would be intent on the entrance of his body. He felt a firm tug and Thomas’s fingers grip on the base, and since the whole thing relied on suction he felt it come out a little – the narrow base, which was fine, bearable, but once it got to the thicker part of the it he could feel this arsehole stretch. It probably looked obscene, then it was out the last bit slipping. James felt liquid come out with it and let out a quiet moan. He was not sure what they were seeing. Miranda’s grease and his digestive system carrying out its functions?

“It’s fine James,” Thomas said, “Nothing to worry about. Just your hole, loose and ready for me. Miranda’s done you well.”

“Your arse is made for this James. So receptive. A breath in for you when he is ready to breach and then his cock is inside you. Smooth as silk as if he were entering me, and you know well as I his member is … substantial.” Miranda’s tone was admiring and amused, “It has been a trial sometimes. Until you.”

James knew why it was easy for him, of course. He had been indulging his desires for men in back alleys, woods and under piers mostly with basic preparation before the act, and then during spit and a thumb poked in before the deed. He had learned to breathe in, relax and enjoy what little that offered, arse running pink afterwards, despite the oil. Then his redcoat who had over hours gently and thoroughly pushed his hand into James, fucking him hard and deep. After that years later Thomas, who had started with gentle fingers and grease to smooth the way at first before realising what James could not say.

“What do you like about the plug?” Thomas asked, almost idly before pushing it inside him again. James gasped in shock feeling the thing, violated again so soon. James did not know how to answer. Did he like it?

“It’s a foreign thing inside me. It gives me no relief and…” He was mumbling into the sheets; glad he did not have to face them.

“I can see that. For too many hours on the edge unlike anything else.” Thomas came from behind him and gently bade him to raise up so he could look into James’s eyes. James rose, aware his chest was heaving. He had allowed his feelings out thinking he was safe with his head pressed to the mattress, and his eyes were unforgivably watery. Thomas wiped one tear away without comment and took James’s cock in his hand. James let out a sigh and shivered slightly in response. It felt good to be grasped again, even lightly, knowing that relief was in the offing. It had been so long since Miranda. “You didn’t answer my question James.” Thomas said gently.

“I don’t like it,” James’s voice rose. “I don’t like how it looks. It is indecent. It is humiliating.”

“It’s not,” said Thomas. It’s just something people enjoy here in their bedrooms, in privacy,” he tugged at James’s cock. “It’s you and I and Miranda and enjoying each other’s bodies. It does not say anything about what we are in the public spheres. It does not affect the measure of you as a man. An officer or as a leader of men.”

“It’s my desire for men, my affinity for being the receptive partner, then this! I am pleasured by this in my arse. By being told what to do.” He felt like a salted slug despite the thickness of pressure and unbearable fullness and his cock painfully hard. James did not say it, but Thomas knew.  _ It is my love for you. _

Thomas closed his eyes and did not say anything further. He disliked conversations about love and sex in bed, stating that judgements there were same as in the parlour, desire clouding rationality like drink. James was grateful for it. He was tiring, shame and pleasure and hours of anticipation slowing his thoughts and reflexes. Thomas’s hand tightened on his cock and began to pull on him. James felt lightheaded with pleasure, warmth blooming in his belly, face, chest. Thomas let go too soon and James gasped.

“On your hands and knees,” said Thomas.

James scrambled to do his bidding. “Deep breath, James.” He knew what was coming and let go. The plug came out again and without much ado, Thomas pushed his cock in. He was longer, if not thicker and James always felt like it was a club inside him, pushing into that space inside him that made him see spots. This was why he preferred to be the receptive partner – it was just too good. A grip of an arse around his cock did not give him this. Thomas was moving carefully, realising that some gentleness was needed after James’s hours being stretched but giving no quarter, nonetheless. James thought about touching himself, but since Thomas had not said he could he did not. The pressure of Thomas’s large body ramming into him was slowly inching him forward, the sheets abrading his knees. He liked that small pain too.

“How does his arse feel Thomas?” Miranda asked, “He’s spent hours being stretched.” There was a longing note in her voice, and blearily James thought that yes, he would like to be fucked by her as well.

“Still tight, but lax too somehow,” James admired Thomas’s even voice. He meanwhile was being reduced to a sloppy heap; Thomas’s even pushes inside him getting him there. That pressure on the edge of the horizon, squeezing at his balls which were drawn up tight, blissful, and painful for how long it had been. He felt it cresting and Thomas through some supernatural sense, sped up, aiming so that good spot was hit inside him on every single one. James realised he was getting louder for each thrust and with almost no warning he felt himself come, cock so high and tight it hit him in chest and face. Despite himself he felt himself collapse on the bed, limp, Thomas coming out of him.

“James, could I—” started Thomas.

James waved a limp hand in agreement despite the overstimulation. Thomas was kind enough get it over fast, only a few thrusts. James felt the jerks and warmth inside him. James always left quickly after to clean after sex with Thomas, afraid of any unpleasant liquids coming out while they were holding each other in bed. He got up to do the same, but Thomas held him back with an arm.

“Lie down,” he said, “and face Miranda.”

James’s heart started pounding. No, no, no. He thought knew what was coming.

He closed his eyes. No grease was needed with him still sloppily loose; the plug felt small after Thomas. It was holding everything in, which was good, but he had it back inside himself again hard and cold, but familiar now. His body felt odd, back tingling, face too warm. Those long hours had kind of confused his senses and sensations, a faint buzzing in his ears, mouth full of saliva, which he had to keep swallowing down.

Thomas lay behind him, so James was in the middle between the two. Along with the overwhelm, his nose was full of scent. His own come on his chest. Thomas and his patchouli, the starch of the sheets, the fire, Miranda’s hair oil, her fluids – she had come too. They were all scents that made him feel safe.

Miranda lightly touched his cheek and he felt the wildness recede. They had planned this together for him. Shame and pleasure intertwined. Breaking him and remaking him in some small ways. At times he had wished he could stop his stomach working when he had men play with his arse, and he must not have been particularly subtle, so this was some odd solution? He closed his eyes. He felt Miranda lick his face clean. Thomas rub his back and arse.

They were good at giving him things he did not know he wanted. He would deal with the consequences tomorrow.

  1. Miranda (Nassau)



James brought home seeds for her as she plotted the layout her garden, where the beds would go, where she would plant what. Having grown up on the Barlow estate (apples) she knew some of such things, but she had got most of it wrong the first time, unused to clime and light, and for doing everything for herself with only the hardest of tasks saved for a day or two’s work for casual labourers. In her yard there was too much light in some parts, and it was unfortunate the way the ground sloped toward the Adams’s and drew water, making it too boggy for anything but rice. Not that she knew what to do with rice. James had taken her casual comment and brought home a bag the next time he was home. That time he had broken down about men who had died taking a prize that turned out to be worthless. He had cried and she had brought his off with his mouth, his fingers tangled in her hair.

She had done most of the second lot of landscaping, fixing those first errors and set up the main patch at the front of the house. She had done mostly without James. When tasked he complied, but he was too tired from the sea to problem solve as he did it. She found him once digging into rocky soil, his shovel barely denting the ground, metal scraping. She had taken him inside and loved him then when it had still been enough for their two bodies to intertwine. He found some ease, she felt her body respond, spasms and pleasure. He had slept deeply that night and then was gone for the next two months. About her and not about her. There was something in him that rebelled, something that hurt, when he found satisfaction with her.

At first he brought her just vegetable seeds and then later flowers, after he had seen a bunch of bright native blooms arranged on her dresser. Some he brought were plants that were blatantly unsuitable for the climate; others were eaten by the island’s insects within minutes of sprouting.

So, she read, she asked others, and experimented, then requested marigolds as companion to tomatoes, baby’s breath to battle aphids, geraniums for protect peppers. Zinnias, petunias, nasturtiums and others. The poppy experiment was too successful with the plants thriving in Nassau’s soil and tropical climate, and were illicitly harvested one night whilst they slept, headless weeping white gum in the next day.

The flowers kept the crops alive and gave her colour inside the house. She arranged them in first in pitchers, and then into two lovely Oriental vases courtesy of James. The colours of the blooms and vases did not go together, and she tried not to think of the magnificent arrangements in her London townhouse. That night he fucked her against the wall, one hard arm under her breasts, the other digging into her hip, her face pressed to the wall. She guessed that the vases had reminded him of Thomas as well.

Her small plot bloomed and withered depending on season, but she had a ready supply of seeds from James and then later ones that were harvested from her own garden. A collection she had eventually: vegetables, flowers, some herbs to season dishes.

Later when it hurt less, he brought her books.

At first it was new authors unfamiliar to the both, then ones they had discussed together and then later ones they  _ all  _ had discussed together. The books accumulated so that the red bound copy of the one with the inscription became less obvious on the shelf. That was her, she had packed it with a few other necessities and lastly out of some whim? Premonition? The wooden box. Maybe because it was something of hers and something of theirs.

She remembered that first night with the plug, James weeping at the end and her and Thomas holding onto him for dear life as he let go of his feelings. Telling Thomas, he loved him finally, and her and Thomas doing their best to be surprised.

At first James did not need the plug and it remained in the box. They both knew it was there by the fireplace in the bedroom, on a shelf, in an ordinary box. But they both knew what it was for, and both knew what it looked like embedded in James’s receptive body, knew how it made his cock harden and weep. That was it now, the problem, James’s mind was too preoccupied with his other life: managing men and ship and capturing prizes, avenging Thomas, his whole bloody war against England.

He came home there was little of his essence to thicken his cock for her. Sometimes she wondered if he sated himself with men in Port Royal or even Nassau but she did not think so. He was too touch starved, curling to her side afterwards when they make love. He held her as soon as he came into the house. Wanting her taste in his mouth, worshipping her breasts, the arches of her foot. He wanted her but often his cock did not want to cooperate, only halfway there, making it impossible for her to ride it and impossible for him to orgasm. He pleasured her mostly with his mouth and hands and did not seem to mind.

But she thought it was an unsatisfactory situation. She took matters into her own hands. When he returned from an errand from Nassau, Gates in tow, she decided it was time. Gates was the only man welcome at the house, and she could see why, James almost let his guard down with him. Gates would stay the night and it made it the perfect night, that added touch of being exposed and humiliated adding to their pleasure. She knew James favoured it the most.

She placed their supper on the table; stew made with summer vegetables from her garden, and some scraps of chicken and her latest batch of tough brown bread. Both men talked of matters at sea, and Miranda was not interested enough to want to be included. Once they were done, James cleared away the dishes, his task when he was home, and Gates asked if she wanted some French brandy sourced by their man Cregg, producing it from his saddlebag. Cregg was a man with taste apparently, for when she took a drink, it was warm and golden on her tongue, a feeling that followed down her throat.

Back at the London townhouse she would have been happy to sit and converse for the evening, but now she always had things to do. She brought down the woven box with her seed collection, with each type folded in slips of brown paper with the contents neatly labelled. There enough to last her years. She wanted to decide what she would do next season, and now was a good a time as any to do this job whilst the men talked, the fire was high and there were extra candles lit. Her eyes were not as good as they had been.

After laying out all she needed, quill, ink at her end of the table she got up and brought down the wooden box with the glass plug and placed it on the table too. Gates would not notice – he would think it was more seeds, bulbs maybe, for such a large box.

She continued sorting, glancing up to review James’s reaction. His eyes were fixed on it and he was turning the colours of the French flag: red crawling up his high forehead, white as the colour drained as he remembered Thomas that that first night, and then faintly blue with grief, his eyes burning in his skull, mouth tight.

Had he forgotten how the game worked? This was it. The game had started, and it did not work unless he was wrong footed and even better in company of those not playing the game.

She continued to sort and label serenely, jotting her plans down on the back of a letter, drawing neat squares on her map of the garden, until she had finalised what she wanted. Most was for her and for James when he came through. No matter what he was served, he fell on it, tired of salted meat and ship biscuit. Her surplus was enough to share with the congregation. Most of her pickles and jams were from them, and since it was not an art she had an interest in, so she made sure she supplied them with enough vegetables to be repaid with preserved items. Although goodness knows how long she was to toil in Nassau, so maybe she ought to learn.

Finally, she was done, pleased with the economy and art of her plans. She bid them good night, woven box of seeds and wooden box clasped to her chest. She took both to their bedroom and waited, placing the wooden one by the dresser and basin. She started undressing swiftly and was done and in her nightgown shortly. She got on the bed and sat on the bed, back against the headboard. 

He was not much longer. Eager she thought, despite his agony.

“What the fuck was that about?” His teeth were gritted, and he was red again, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“You know what it was about. I’m putting the plug up your arse, and then you’re going to fuck me with a hard cock not a soft one.”

“Has it been that awful for you?” He closed his eyes. “I have— I want— you. That is not changed. I love you Miranda.”

“I’m not questioning that in the slightest. I am saying what we were doing is not working so we are going to do something else. This is something that you liked before. We have the means to remedy the problem to hand. I suggest you get undressed, wash if you need to, so we can get on with it.” He reddened even further. He needed to be clean for this sort of play, still.

She sat back on the bed and braided her long hair, as he left for the privy, and then came back. She did not give him the privacy as he undressed, and made use of cloth and washbowl, washing his face, and his armpits. He took his hair out of his tie. She watched him carefully. Physically he was different, softer belly, but same hard chest, thick thighs, skin in places marred by violence. The rest were freckles and red sunburn to match his hair.

He was not the McGraw of that first time they had done this, raw, unformed. Now stood before her a man who was hardened, shaped by circumstance, but still very much lost. It was in his mismatched eyes, a vulnerability she suspected only she saw. She crooked her finger urging him to come toward her. He approached and she noticed his cock was quiescent, nestled in wiry red hair. She dearly hoped that this would help.

She had sourced some slick for tonight, saying to Mrs. Harris who kept some sheep, that she had need for some because of her joy for gardening. She had got the idea when she had got talking to Pastor Baker how lambing was hard on the hands, and Mrs Harris made some cream to sooth dryness. Miranda had tried it out on herself, on her hands and inside herself with no stinging or other ill effects. As much as James liked some pain, this sort of pain probably not so much, although others she and Thomas had played with had.

She was nervous she realised. This was the first time it was just her; she was not sure if he would be able to respond as he had to Thomas. Thomas had demanded and received from James, she had assisted and done her husband’s will. But she had to try now because she had made a promise to Thomas to take care of James. She would. James found some small solace in her arms.

He took to the bed and sat on his heels facing her a good foot away. His hair fell into his eyes. It was something that Thomas liked, James with all his hair out, and Miranda thought it was a good sign tonight he had taken it out. His eyes were wary, nonetheless.

“Lie down, turn to your side and draw your knees up to your chest and draw them up and close.” It was something different to what she had asked the first time. She watched as he ran her instruction though his head and realised quickly what image it would present to her. His arse open to her, him being complicit in exposing himself. He swallowed and did as she bid silently. She thought that he probably took some comfort in the fact that unlike the first time he would not have to look, but only to experience. She took a moment to take in the sight, his creamy arse open. His back was broader now, the scattering of freckles multiplied. He was tense.

She used her thumbs to spread his cheeks open wider, and James let out an aborted moan, desire and displeasure admixed, she thought. Letting one hand go she smoothed a stripe of cream over his pucker, it caught on wiry red hairs. Again, she heard him unwillingly make a noise. She let go and he sighed. He was feeling the wetness there at his entrance. She decided against fingers, too much of Thomas and his first seduction.

Miranda smoothed the cream over the bulb, covering it fully. She did not know if James exercised that bit of himself. But the cream and smoothness of the glass would help. She breathed in herself and gripped the base of the it, which was slippery in her grip. She should have thought about that. She parted his buttocks and held the tip against his entrance. She pushed and there was more resistance than she had expected. She pressed harder. More cream? Should she take it out? She was not expecting it when his hand enclosed hers and pushed it all the way in, so the base was sealed to his skin.

It had to have hurt.

He did not do anything else, holding the same curled position because she had asked him to. But his head was down too, chin pressed to chest. Hiding probably. The milky circle looked the same against his arse as it had before, strangely elegant now. She did not tell him to move just started massaging his upper back, digging her thumbs into the knots. She gripped his shoulders digging her fingers into those muscles. She kept at it until she could feel him relaxing slowly, unfurling, straightening his legs, she pushed him on his side, and he took the hint until he was on his front. She did his lower back properly, fingers splayed on either side of his spine. He stiffened once she reached his buttocks but let her clasp and knead, not paying the plug any heed. Thomas after his first time fucking James had waxed poetic about the sheer lushness of his, the curves perfection. She did his wide thighs next, calves and his white feet. He curled his toes. She went back up again the same route she had taken, testing the feel of his muscles, relaxed now. As before she pushed, and he rolled over obediently.

His eyes were calmer now, hair framing his face in almost the same McGraw way. More significantly he was sporting an erection, red and thick. He looked down and frowned at it almost curiously. Miranda did not care to waste time. She drew her nightgown over her thighs and gripping his cock tightly sat down on it. It felt amazing inside her. Not as thick as Thomas’s had been nor as long but so good. She started riding him and he reached back to grip the headboard, letting her do the work. She did not mind; it was another one of his quirks. She guessed that in this position he felt most taken between the plug in his arse and her on top. She pleasured herself on him, swaying her hips how she needed. It did not take long for her – she had been doing without for a while, and she was a woman whose needs were great. She made to get off him, but in an echo of that first time, he flipped her over and fucked her hard before coming inside her silently. He pulled out quickly and gathered her close.

“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. His grip was tight, and his body was shaking. No, not shaking, he was beset with silent sobs. She held him as he rode it out the waves of sorrow and want. Finally, he stopped, and his beautiful eyes met hers. He smiled wearily, let go of her and reached for her face, to use his thumbs to wipe away the tears on  _ her _ cheeks. They were both the lesser two, painfully loving each other, having lost their nexus. There was nothing to say so they washed up separately, James taking himself off to take care of the plug himself, avoiding Gates. He returned and placed it into the box and handed it to her, almost ceremoniously.

So that is how they did it after, not always, but most times. Thomas there for James inside him in glass, with Miranda with him in body, and her mind channelling Thomas. She chose when and how, and James loved that too. She left him plugged as he rode to Nassau and back, where he was needed for some urgent matter to do with the Walrus’s hull. Upon return, he collapsed off his horse and she caught him before he hit the ground. Held him up and walked him inside their house and loved him and told him how good he was at taking it. Told him he should have eaten and knew why he had not.

She tied his arms to the headboard and asked him to push it out and watched him struggle, not with bearing down and using his muscles, but of his horror of liquids leaking out. But he did it, narrow stem first, heaving with effort for the large bulb, and the rest popping out of him swiftly landing in Miranda’s cupped hands. She laid it aside into a waiting washbowl and kissed his wet cheek, red beard wet with salt. The relief and calmness in his eyes would be brief and would stop him trying to die another day.

It was something, and better than nothing, but still not enough for either of them, and never would be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Update and up next:
> 
> 1/ James after losing Miranda. Walking into a Port Royal tavern, bending over and asking to be fucked by anyone. Everyone obliges. Butt plug included. Go to [Shattered.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515704)  
> 2/ Prequel: James McGraw with his Tommy Atkins, where he learns to properly play with his arse.  
> 3/ I’ll write Thomas/James post canon probably without butt plugs. Probably.  
>  _Also yes this fic is hella anachronistic including butt plugs, which weren't invented yet. I googled some things and ignored them._


End file.
